


Zugzwang, or headlights in the rear-view mirror

by AllViolet



Category: Chess - Rice/Ulvaeus/Andersson
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Antisemitism, Assault, Backstory, Changing POVs, Chess puns, F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Infidelity, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Original Character Death(s), Period-Typical Homophobia, Sexism, Substance Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-02
Updated: 2018-08-01
Packaged: 2019-03-26 02:09:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 10,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13847841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllViolet/pseuds/AllViolet
Summary: However far you might run, however high you might climb, it still won't take you much further than a cigarette smoke-soaked room in a love hotel.Anatoliy&Freddie, Freddie&Florence, Anatoliy/Florence, Anatoliy/Svetlana. Based on several productions, mostly London-compliant.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> OK guys, it's my first story - English isn't my first language, so any grammar corrections would be greatly appreciated. The updates might be rare, so bear with me - and hope you enjoy! :)

 

They sentenced me to twenty years of boredom

For trying to change the system from within

I'm coming now, I'm coming to reward them

First we take Manhattan, then we take Berlin

_Leonard Cohen, First we take Manhattan_

 

 

**/the night between 'Talking Chess' and 'Endgame'/**

 

_'Get a grip.'_

 

The words hung in the heavy, thick air as Anatoliy looked to his side.

 

The place was called a park.

 

 In the scrawled note, in the tourist guide, in every of those few instances either of them had heard of it - it was always described as one.

 

It was more of an enormous square though, with sparse groups of people scurrying through the vast emptiness - especially now, with the curtain of rain flooding it relentlessly. Under the sickly-looking trees surrounding the area, stood Freddie Trumper, the former world chess champion, trying to simultaneously wrestle open a pocket chess set - a small, chintzy piece of plastic - while retaining a grip on an equally chintzy, slippery umbrella. Anatoliy Sergievskiy, his successor, looked at him quizzically from a few feet away, tightening his grip on the leather briefcase he held.

 

'Win for chess,' mumbled Freddie again, emphasizing the last word. He was focused on fumbling with the board. 'Look… It's the dumbest mistake, I swear, thought you Russkies kicked kids out of your chess schools for that kind of thing…'

 

Anatoliy stood still, not quite sure as to what to do. First, reading this odd letter, written in messy handwriting on a page torn out of a hotel Bible (stationery wouldn't be enough, now would it?) - and, moreover, treating it seriously by stepping out of the room in this weather. He also made a grievous error of not walking away the moment he saw Trumper obviously waiting for him - this entire dumb scheme of sending an anonymous note via room service… was anybody else capable of being this needlessly overdramatic, given the circumstances? The third lapse of judgement was allowing himself to speak to him, not simply accepting the advice, strange as it was, and leaving. As obvious as these mistakes were, he suddenly felt excused - in his mind, among the entangled thoughts of families, lovers and countries, a light turned on - _getting King's Indian wrong? Something Vigand_ had _to study for years, getting to know each line, each variation? He had to have these memorized at this point. Memorizing things is what he had built his entire career on…_

 

'He's going to try and keep the opening textbook, he doesn't want you to have an advantage and he can't lose this time, so in case you and your second haven't been paying attention and of course you — '

 

The thread, as thin as it was, snapped immediately.

 

'Don't,' said Anatoliy, his voice sharp again. 

 

'No, you have to play this through, there's something I thought of…'

 

Silence. Stern look.

 

'Let's... Let's just sit down somewhere. I'll show you.'

 

Quirked eyebrow. Loud exhale.

 

Freddie looked around helplessly, as if he suddenly remembered the pouring rain.

 

'Why don't we just go… come with me, Sergievskiy.'

 

 _Make that the fourth error_ , thought Anatoliy as he followed Freddie into the hurricane of a city that engulfed them, with its tangled streets, awash with people, noise, heat and rainwater.

 


	2. Chapter 2

There are moments when things come out right, he thought, this though… this was something else. Really. This was something that he - well, he and Florence - had worked for for the past four years. Not only he managed to win the championship, but he has done so just at the right moment. He wasn't just the winner - when you come back in July of 1976 to New York, ablaze with bicentennial celebrations, you become a symbol. A bona fide, eagle-crying-with-a-torn-flag-in-its-claws kinda symbol.

 

Florence smiled at him, her long white dress billowing like sails of a tall ship as they walked through the terminal at JFK. Her hair looked like fire, he noted, lit with all the flashes of cameras snapping away. Maybe it's her personality shining through, he thought and snickered and elbowed her lightly. She gave him a slightly quizzical look from behind the large sunglasses, sighed and giggled, covering her mouth. 

 

Even though he wouldn't admit it out loud, he was often sick of the heavy, grey city he spent nearly all of his life in, this fucking cage of concrete - but right now, it felt light - and full of light, too - and he almost didn't mind the summer heat (nor the fact that Florence insisted on him wearing a jacket despite this).

 

 _It's a movie scene waiting to happen_ , Freddie thought, grinning. _Just you wait, assholes_. 

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

'How did you find a place like this? Been here before?'

 

There should be a mocking tone to his voice, Freddie could almost swear that it was there. Still, when he looked at Sergievskiy, the man was seemingly too busy taking off his rain-soaked jacket. The black hair clung to his forehead. Water was dripping from his sleeves. 

 

'We've been stuck here for the past five months because of you. Might as well go sightseeing,' said Freddie while throwing the umbrella through the bathroom door. The snap of breaking metal echoed among the tiles. 'The whole reason I demanded the five-victory matches was so that they'd be over quicker.'

 

'Your definition of sightseeing is… quite strange.'

 

Anatoliy looked around the hotel room Trumper had just rented - for a single night. Yes, it was Bangkok, and yes, he knew that most people here (or anywhere, for that matter) didn't really care about chess, never mind recognizing individual chess players, however titled they might have been, still, it felt quite awkward.

 

The room itself wasn't what one could comfortable either - even though there was nothing there except for a bed and two bedside tables, it felt crowded to the point where there wasn't enough space for air. There was an adjacent bathroom though. A thought went through his mind - maybe there is a window there, and it's only second floor after all, isn't it?

 

'There's quite a few attractive women here and you like to make noise around yourself, but it's not quite your style, Trumper.'

 

Freddie's face turned red in an instant. 'What the hell do you mean by 'not my style,' you asshole?' he shouted.

 

There was no response.

 

'Screwing every single woman in your vicinity is your thing, not mine, so shut your fucking face,' he added, trying to tone down his voice and failing.

 

Anatoliy rolled his eyes.

 

'Maybe if you _did_ screw anyone at all, you wouldn't be a paranoid shit dragging -'

 

'Shut the fuck up, commie, is that all you can think of?'

 

After a long moment of silence, he took a deep breath and looked at the shiny pink comforter before him, then down, at the dark red carpet beneath his feet and sat down on the floor, still staring skeptically at the bed.

 

'You need to focus, Sergievskiy - and I don't think Malakhov is going to look for you here.'

 

Anatoliy looked at the walls - were they supposed to be yellow, or was it just residue from the cigarette smoke that has apparently soaked through everything in the room? - and kneeled on the opposite side of the strangely narrow bed, wringing the wet cuffs of his shirt.

 

As Freddie was going through his pockets and throwing all of their contents on the shiny fabric covering the bed, Anatoliy opened his briefcase, peering inside. He looked up at the growing pile of scraps of paper, keys, chewing gum wrappers and other items before him, and closed the case.

 

'Okay, so we have been wandering through the city for well over an hour. If you wanted to show me something, we have lost plenty of time already. Can we get to the point now?'

 

 He sighed and propped up his elbows on the side of the mattress, which creaked like a stepped-upon cat. Trumper lifted his eyes, pulling out the pocket set and opened it with too much force, sending the pieces flying. When Anatoliy reached out to pick them up and arrange several on the board, Freddie made a movement as if to swat his hand away from the plastic figures, stopping millimetres away from it.

 

'What is wrong with you, Trumper? If you didn't want -'

 

'Nevermind. Let's get to the point like you said, Russki.' Freddie's voice sounded strained as he arranged the pieces in King's Indian and browsed through the notes thrown around the bed and the floor next to it.


	4. Chapter 4

Ghosts weren't something that Tolya believed in.

Science was the language his mother and father spoke, the only one he heard from them - they both were people of few words. Their words were sharp and precise, then again, they were smart people - and Anatoliy knew, smart people don't need to speak much. That was why he liked to joke around his parents that he wasn't like them, wasn't like them at all - mother would smile one of her steely, sharp-edged smiles at him and give him another book to read. This alone was worth making yourself look stupid.

Ghosts didn't belong in the world of light, glass and steel that he was born in - the hospital at night was a different world altogether though. Sometimes, in those draughty rooms - and halls, which he secretly sneaked out to wander among at night, hoping no nurse will notice him - he could feel something, almost more like someone. Maybe it was just nurses, in their tall white starched caps, quiet (well, until they saw you) and stern - the same words he would use to describe mother, though she was so different.

He missed her, her jokes, as sharp as her eyes - when he would tell her about yet another injection, she would smile and call him her little laboratory bunny while patting his shoulder. Those visits, too rare to his liking, gave him a rare opportunity to actually talk to someone, which meant she would be hit with an avalanche of words. She took every single one of them with dignity.

Here, roommates came and went, something one gets used to when spending time in a hospital. Most of the time, you didn't get quite enough time to get acquitanced to the point when you were familiar enough to speak to each other for a longer time. 

Surrounded by the greyish-white of this strange little world he has been calling his second home, he wished he could, as he said to himself sometimes, turn on the light. It was as if these rooms and hallways had always stayed dimmed, a sunrise that never quite actually rose.

As his hand, still dark despite the lack of sunshine, touched the wall, he noticed a figure far down the hallway. Whoever that was, they had noticed him before he could get back to his room.

It was the doctor who worked the nighttime shift. Anatoliy braced for the heavy hand which, he was sure, was about to clutch his shoulder and drag him to his room.

'What are you doing here, boy?' 

Maybe the reason the doctor didn't rise his voice was to not to wake up the rest of the sleeping patients. Still, Anatoliy felt a bit of relief, even though his heart was still racing.

'I couldn't sleep, sir.'

'Well then, you should have stayed in your bed, you won't fall asleep while walking around the ward,' the doctor said, his voice still calm. Anatoliy noticed a small smile under his moustache. He looked young still, younger than parents anyway, despite the heavy glasses that framed his tired, narrow face.

'When I'm in my bed, not doing anything, it's like my brain works too much.'

'Your brain works too much?' The doctor's smile broadened. 'Let's see if there is a remedy to that… I think I know of something.'

'A new medicine?' Anatoliy's thought's immediately ran to injections he has been receiving. He shivered and pursed his lips.

'Not quite. Though it is good for you. Follow me.'

Anatoliy was now intrigued and walked behind the doctor, holding onto the wall.

'Have you ever played chess?'


	5. Chapter 5

 

The rhytmic patter of pieces on the board, the rustling of the bedsheets, the veil of rain just behind the window.

 

The muted colours of the claustrophobic room, with the garish duvet serving as the centerpiece, dotted with the black and white of figures leaving the board and making their way back while replaying that variation from the '65 Interzonal which Freddie begrudgingly admitted finding interesting ('Still doesn't make Bilyaletdinov a good player,' he added hastily).

 

It was refreshing almost - he hadn't seen Trumper in this mode for quite a while - his voice deeper, calmer - has he ever actually speaken like this before? - as he dove into a monologue that seemed only partially meant for Anatoliy. 

 

He did listen, though.

 

A quick thought ran through his brain - Trumper actually bothering to memorise Bilyaletdinov name? This alone had shown him Freddie from a hitherto unkown perspective, one akin to something along the lines of feeding ducks at a park or teaching chess to preschoolers. He snorted softly at the image.

 

'Am I boring you?'

 

Freddie lifted his gaze from the board, his voice almost back to normal this time. He opened his mouth as if to say something more, but gritted his teeth and looked away instead.

 

Anatoliy grabbed the knight and moved it with a bit more force than needed. 

 

'How about this?'

 

Silence.

 

'…not bad, I suppose.'

 

Freddie looked at the board, resting his chin on his hands, folded on the mattress.

 

The gentle hum from behind the window filled the space that, for a second, was cut with sudden tension. Once again, the rhythm, one that could be called almost _easy_ , had been established.

 

 _He's never been anyone's second, hasn't he?_  

 

The melody of chess had reentered Anatoliy's mind. Clean and bright and crisp.

 


	6. Chapter 6

The rook fell onto its place.

 

The last note of a symphony, one of those German ones with a big bang at the end. That's how it felt to Freddie.

 

Then silence.

 

'Frederick Trumper is the winner and becomes the world champion!'

 

The roar of the audience drowned out the last words of the arbiter's last words, much to his visible dismay.

 

Freddie sprung to his feet and turned immediately towards the crowds gathered in the - way too small, in his opinion - hall. He grinned in the least sheepish way possible. Volodin, as far as he was concerned, didn't exist anymore.

 

Quite literally. 

 

He searched for Florence among the silhouettes filling the room - he was glad it took a while - and winked at her. She smiled the widest smile he'd ever seen on her, clapping so hard her red wavy hair and the sunglasses hanging off of the neckline of her shirt bounced with each movement.

 

His shirt (the white for today was Florence's idea) shone in the blinding flashes of the cameras. He tried not to blink while walking towards the front of the stage. 

 

When he noticed Volodin approaching him out of the corner of his eye, he did his best not to face him. As he shook his hand, he didn't tear his gaze awy from the crowd before him. 

 

He won. This was all that counted now. The reign of those commie shitstains was over. Over. And he beat them into submission. 

 

A trophy was pushed into his waiting embrance, a wreath hung off of his neck. He did actually allow the arbiter to put this ridiculous giant horseshoe made of, as it turned out, itchy, branches, despite promising himself time and time again that he would push this ridiculous thing away when the moment came. Maybe it was the sheer giddiness of victory - he felt like an underscoring of the ultimate I-told-you-so, of the greatest fuck-you in his life (and in chess history -- and, actually, in the non-chess one as well, for that matter), was necessary -- or maybe it was just to piss off Volodin (and all the Soviets) even more. He wasn't quite sure, but all the same, it was a part of the deal. 

 

Freddie looked quickly to the side, at Volodin standing several feet away. He didn't look particularly angry - he just clapped along with everyone else, a relaxed smile on his face.

 

He didn't get what has happened yet, didn't he? Or maybe he was just too shocked to react properly. Freddie stepped towards the edge of the stage, grinning even wider.  There was a point that had to be made.

 

A speech was already unfurling in his brain.

 

 _Well, this didn't take long_ \- _should've been even quicker though, am I right?_

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

  
The freshly-hung brassieres and shirts were still dripping onto the slightly caved-in floor of the kitchen. The laundry line stretched all across the room, above the narrow space separating the cupboards from the table, which was surrounded by chairs of many different backgrounds and breeds.

 

The one on which Anatoliy was kneeling had something hound-like about its silhouette. It looked like Sasha's dog, in a way. Not-Grandpa's chair came with him from Leningrad - a city of which he often talked about, though he'd usually call it other, old names - and creaked under him right now, as he shifted, looking at the board.

 

'I didn't quite expect you to take to chess, least of all in the hospital, Tolya,' he smiled while sipping tea.

 

'This is wrong,' said Anatoliy, all furrowed brows and stern voice, while pushing back Not-Grandpa's knight back to its previous square. 'It's a…' - he stopped for a moment, trying to remember the exact words - 'mate in four. Try to find something different.' He sounded almost offended - in this particular manner that Not-Grandpa found rather adorable, at least in a child. It had a similar quality to the way Anatoliy was almost swallowed up by the too large, yellow jumper he was wearing.

 

'I see you're trying your best to not to go to sleep,' mother chuckled, lighting an unfiltered cigarette. Though her there were dark bags under her eyes, seemingly almost darker than her black eyes themselves, she was in a good mood. She just sat down after sweeping the corridor — as much as she didn't enjoy the task, being back home early enough to perform it was a pleasant change. 'Try and be considerate, it's late - and not everyone here is six and has so much energy.'

  
'Mother…'

 

'Tolya, you are going to school tomorrow.'

 

'Just this one game?' he whispered pleadingly, wrapping mother's jumper tigher around himself.

 

'Alright, alright' she smiled, reaching out for the ashtray.

 

'There, now this should be a challenge.' In Not-Grandpa's voice, which was as warm and fragile as the lightbulb hanging over their heads (the fragility of which Anatoliy learned had about rather directly on a certain evening, as he and Seryozha, left alone, tried to figure out making slings), was now a strange note.

 

  
As Tolya looked at the board, he again felt the world shrink when he focused on the pieces.

 

Seryozha looked up from his homework and at the board in the middle of the table. While he did mind having to crowd all of his work on this little space, he secretly enjoyed watching the games.

 

'Look, Tolya, how about doing it this way - attacking this way would be much more efficient. I saw a move like this in Shakhmatniy Bulletin,' said Seryozha with an audible hint of pride in his voice. Ever since he scored the third place at the tournament held in the culture hall - for which he received a chess book - he's been reading the magazine quite often.

 

Not-Grandpa sighed dramatically and spread his arms. 'Boys, boys, this is not fair! It's now two of you against me!'

 

  
'You sure it went like that? Look…' Anatoliy reached out through the board and started to move both his and Not-Grandpa's pieces, playing out a wild attack.

 

As two of his own pawns found their way off the board, he added: 'If I… you-know… these two here, it's going to make more sense.' Seryozha didn't even have the time to say something about the dangers of sacrifices - or the term itself, for that matter, as he watched Tolya's small, clumsy hands feverishly moving both black and white figures.

 

Anatoliy's mother laughed as she fiddled with her rusty podstakannik. She put down the book, watching her son play out the game by himself, as startled neighbours helplessly looked at the board.

 

The kitchen door opened with a creak.

 

'Now, Seryozha, are you done? You have to go to school tomorrow.'

 

Seryozha's mother was a nurse, round and red-haired, with big grey eyes. She looked like an owl to Anatoliy. While her voice and words were much rounder than his own mother's, resembling balls of yarn, they often sounded strange and strained - particularly during moments like this one, when she entered the kitchen in the evening, only to see her son doing something other than finishing his homework.

 

Even though she was smiling right now, the smile was the same as the one worn by teachers who had just succeeded in silencing a rowdy classroom.

 

'Dina Avramovna, could you be so kind and spare a moment to talk? There is something that has been on my mind lately.’

 

Mother extinguished her cigarette and nodded, looking over her shoulder at the woman behind her.

 

'Can we talk outside?' Seryozha's mother's voice grew more pointed.

 

They walked out. Even though they stood in the corridor, their voices were audible enough.

 

'Dina Avramovna, I know you are working - speaking of which, I do find it strange you two can't get a place better than this…'

 

Anatoliy stopped listening.

 

He took a deep breath, like a diver before submerging himself in the sea, and sunk into the mad dash across the small world of the board he saw so clearly in his head.


	8. Chapter 8

  
'There is a slight variation on this, Khazanov had used it at Wijk an Zee six years ago…'

'So, you admit he can actually play?'

A waft of smoke rose above the bed, adding another layer of cigarette stench to the one that had already permeated the room.

Freddie rolled his eyes and scowled, staring at the cloud, stirred from the trance by Anatoliy's voice.

'Do you have to do that? Can't you just… not smoke for a moment?'

A quizzical look.

'They should finally ban this shit at tournaments. And his entire Wijk an Zee stint was a one-off. Wouldn't be surprised if —'

Anatoliy put the cigarette out and threw the butt into an empty pack he pulled out of his jacket's pocket.

'Wait, Trumper. Are you -- are you implying that he was cheating?'

Freddie snorted and scratched the back of his hand.

'I wouldn't be surprised,' he said with a lopsided grin. 'Let me tell you this much.'

'Why would he cheat at Wijk an Zee just to lose as badly as he did during all the tournaments later - even the Interzonal? And how would he cheat anyway?'

It wasn't the time, nor the place for a conversation like this - Anatoliy was well aware of it, it was a training session on the evening before the last game, or at the very least it was something with a semblance of one, but it's been quite a while since he got to simply talk chess with anyone. They've been sitting here for quite a while now, weren't they?

Freddie looked at him incredulosuly, rising his head from his hands.

'Really? He was playing against Epstein, Sergievskiy.  _Epstein._  It was political. Of course they would want to win. It was just as much Epstein vs. Khazanov as it was Mossad vs. KGB. And besides, I saw someone walk by him. That table choice wasn't an accident either. The federation president can speak about this entire neutral shit all he wants, they can be bought too. You can force them to do things. You know I did.'

Freddie laughed as he finished his sentence.

'Still, it was only Wijk an Zee. And the Interzonal?'

'He was playing against Margaryan. Boring. Of course he'd lose against him, he always falls flat on his ass when playing against anyone who's actually good at positional play. You do the same thing sometimes, actually. But he's downright stuck in the nineteenth century with all this tactical stuff. Anyway... And they might have been trying to set Margaryan up, you know that Volodin has a decent score against him, both you and I know that they _do_ set up those tournaments, as if you weren't put up there this way as well, it's just another fucking game for them — and thanks. I hate that shit.'

Anatoliy blinked slowly several times.


	9. Chapter 9

There are memories that aren't something you remember in the strictest meaning of the word - they're just snippets, dust hanging in the space of your brain, glistening for a second when light happens to hit them. The days not far from the oceanside were such memories for Anatoliy. He wasn't sure if they were his own memories or something he eavesdropped while not-listening to mother and father during their rare conversations.

He recalled something of the city, the ships maybe? There weren't any particular sights, sounds - just a vague memory of being there. A sensation of his hands grasping a bannister, air that felt different from the one of Moscow. The taste of metal on his tongue. Warmth on his face and one that radiated from inside, like sunshine and fever.

The strangest thing about it all was that he - the boy who rushed through _The Two Captains_ so many times the book's spine was almost missing now, making it a near-sacred object that required gentle handling - didn't remember the travel to Moscow.

This gap set his imagination ablaze. A travel through the entirety of Russia! In those rare moments when he was truly alone, he grew to love creating fanciful visions of all those might-have-beens in his mind. The rattle of the train, the tea sold on the stations on the way, the wide expanses of steppes, the little villages visited, the passengers you talked to while spending days and nights in the same compartment. Sometimes he would try to fit small pieces of those always too scarce scraps of backstories of his parents he would catch in flight when they spoke sometimes, their eyes not looking at him, or anything in the room for that matter. Not very different from catching a moth, he thought. Once you do catch one of those, you pin them in your collection to enjoy forever.

Ships mentioned sometimes left him wondering, why would you live those behind just to work with magnets in Moscow, as they would bring up ever since he could remember?

Anatoliy smiled at the game he was playing through, sitting with his legs crossed, the _Shakhmatniy Bulletin_ open before him. Lately, the delicious vision has been growing out of the ground of those dreams, though he wouldn't dare share it… It became all the more delicious when kept a secret, he thought. Thanks to the magazine before him, sneaked out from Seryozha's room (the joy of spending less time at school than his dear neighbour!), he was becoming more and more acutely aware of the travelling that was a part of the deal of being a good chess player. A very good one. A grandmaster. Getting to be one… Well, it wasn't a plan you would really share with people, not that openly at least. While mother didn't condemn being boastful, not outright, this might be just too much. Being laughed at wasn't all that bad, but only if you meant this to happen, after all.

Still, the idea of playing the game in some far-off corner of Russia? Or maybe even further? This sense of pride, sweet as wild raspberries with cream or the glimmer in Not-Grandpa's eyes as Tolya would turn the game in his favour (which did happen more often lately), would creep into his mind as he tried to fall asleep, doing his best not to giggle with glee that inevitably overcame him. The sound of the title alone made his insides twist in the most pleasant way possible.

Playing with Not-Grandpa and Seryozha could be a first step, now could it? The second one would be finding chess players. As this simple answer dawned in his mind, he swore he could feel the scent of the ocean (not just a sea! an ocean!), which he knew only from his favourite adventure novels after all.


	10. Chapter 10

Florence smiled as she enjoyed a sip of sparkling wine. A copy of the ridiculous vampire novel she was about to finish rested on the restaurant table, warm from the Mediterranean sun. The entire city  was bathed in the glow of late spring. It was so beautiful, she almost didn't mind having to cover herself up with shawls and straw hats. Her fingers played with the fringe of the green fabric that covered her shoulders.

 

With the match going so well - she admitted to herself, even she didn't believe they - well, Freddie with her aid - will have a score quite this good so early on (three to one in the second week!) - it was all the more pleasant to take a moment off and eat a dinner the way one would, in her opinion, usually do when visiting a country in the Southern Europe. That is, just for once not in the hotel room.

 

She noticed the waiter making his way to the only other occupied table and smiled at him - a guy with a mischevious grin, gleaming brown eyes and glossy black hair like this, she couldn't really help herself. Just as sun-drenched as the city itself. The tight schedule didn't really allow much time for torrid affairs, but a flirty moment was a nice escape from the day-to-day tasks. 

 

His eyes met hers. He winked and gave her an even wider smile.

 

Pleasant warmth spread across her cheeks. She wanted another glass of wine now, didn't she?…

 

Then looked straight ahead.

 

Freddie, who was peculiarly silent, was also looking at the waiter.  

 

Florence shook her head, trying to stifle a giggle.

 

'He's mine!' Florence said in a bright, cheery voice, leaning forward. 'The city is full of men, we can find you —'

 

'Shut up, Florence!' Freddie shouted, the peace of the sleepy little nook in which they spent the past hour, vanished in a flash. 'I'm leaving, we've wasted enough time here.'

 

He stood up, leaning on the table so hard, he nearly knocked the soda bottle that stood before him to the ground.

 

'Freddie, sit down. We need to pay first, at least.' Florence lifted her hand. While there were no outburst of this kind in the past few days, Freddie made sure she was quite used to them  by now.

 

'We are leaving. I don't want to be here anymore, and there is the error from yesterday -'

 

'Sit down. I'll pay and we can go.' Florence interrupted in a quiet but firm tone, the smile gone from her face.

 

Freddie was gripping the chair, standing still, but not walking away either.

 

Florence sighed - she was regaining the control of the situation.

 

'Sit down. Please. We aren't in any rush, it's still early.'

 

Freddie stayed motionless for a moment, after which he plopped down onto the wrought-iron chair. 

 

Florence waved her hand in an apologetic manner at the man sitting nearby, who looked at them strangely.

 

'Listen, Freddie, you need to learn to accept a joke. You don't want this kind of attention, now do you?' she asked, trying to sound gentle. 

 

'Was that a fucking joke? First you say this kind of shit, on a fucking street no less, and then you're talking about not wanting attention? Please.' Freddie leaned back as he spoke, exhaling dramatically. His voice was down though, despite his hands still being squeezed into fists. 

 

'Okay, I apologize. It wasn't appropriate - it just slipped out. And you too should apologize, for shouting at me.'

 

'Slipped out? Oh, come on. You keep pestering me - do this Freddie, be nice Freddie - and now what? Miss Good Manners is all oopsie-daisy, because a tiny little joke had slipped out, right? Fuck, Florence, get a grip. You call yourself a chess player and you can't even notice the tiny little fact that maybe you shouldn't be shouting about this shit from the rooftops? Or on a damn street? You all are like that, that's why there are no women make it to any actual championships. Fucking lady brains -'

 

Freddie looked at Florence's expression and stopped speaking. He inhaled deeply, pressed his lips into a thin line and looked away, as he murmured a half-hearted 'sorry'.

 

'Let's change the subject,' said Florence as she sipped some more of the now-lukewarm wine. The liquid sticked to her throat.

 

'I've been thinking about our plans for the next few months, since the match might be over sooner than we thought.'

 

'Than _you_ thought - I said it's gonna be over soon. I said that months ago. Before Reykjavik. We need to talk to the federation guys, it's ridiculous to make these things two months long. Twenty five games is way too much when you're playing with the commies,' said Freddie, his voice back to the normal, albeit loud tone.

 

Florence smiled lightly. The worst was over.

 

'We will think about this later, okay? Now, I wanted —' 

 

She noticed the waiter passing by again. She nodded at him - it was best not to stay here now - and reached for her bag in order to retrieve the wallet and the phrasebook.

 

When the man stopped at their table, Freddie froze in place, looking away, at the windows on the other side of the street. Florence gave him a cautious look - he was so tense she could almost see him tremble.

 

She checked the book and asked 'Nistgħu nieħdu l-kont jekk jgħoġbok?'

 

'Of course,' said the waiter in accented English and left. As she pulled out the money from the wallet, she looked at Freddie. He still didn't look away from the windows.

 

'Going back to our plans… since the Olympics aren't in our schedule, I thought of going back home for a few weeks, to check on Erzsi. I thought that maybe you'd like to go with me. You haven't been to UK in quite a while, after all.'

 

There was no response. Freddie stirred only after the bill was paid and Florence was packing her bag.

 

'It's ok. He's gone now. What do you think, Freddie?' 

 

She noticed that her tone was again the one she'd use when talking to a child. Freddie laughed at this most of the time, but not today.

 

'Let's talk about this later. Anyway, I want to go to the US with a Concorde after it's finished,' he said, trying to sound normal.

 

'What?' 

 

'You heard me.'

 

'But - Freddie, are you sure? You're doing better with planes now, but…'

 

'I'm a grown man, Florence, I can handle a plane trip to the fucking States, just like I could handle the trip here!'

 

A lilting voice with a thick accent reached them, calling out their names.

 

'Miss Vaszy! Mister Trumper!'

 

A compact, middle-aged woman with dark blonde hair smiled at them as she stood in the doorway of the restaurant. 

 

'Oh, Mrs. Volodina! Nice to see you.' 

 

Florence mustered up a smile, trying to retain her composure. There were enough restaurants in Valletta not to end up in the same one as Alla Volodina - hopefully without her husband. Florence gripped the handle of her bag tightly, keeping her gaze firmly on the woman. 

 

'I saw you through the window as we ate, and now I heard Mr. Trumper a moment ago. I hope you two enjoyed the dinner as much as we did. Did you try the rabbit?'


	11. Chapter 11

Something hit the windowpane. 

Freddie looked up from the scribble-covered napkin. His first instinct was to duck and hide under the bed. Nothing had flown into the room. He shook his head, trying to calm himself down - it wasn't the Russkies, they weren't following them, weren't they?

His eyes darted to Sergievskiy, who didn't seem to notice the sound. He was fully focused on the board. Freddie hasn't seen him like that in a while. Eyes, just as black as his hair, staring down the pieces. Not at them — his strange gaze made it seem as if, if he could, he'd burn the figures just by looking at them. 

Reading expressions was never Freddie's strength - Florence would often wax poetics about eyes and faces and hands of the players in her articles and he'd just ask why was she wasting all the space she could use to talk about the actual games. Really, as long as the opponent wasn't making much noise (or trying to sneak any messages right in front of him) or some other kind of fuss, over the years he had learned to not to any pay attention to them, just to their chess.

He kept looking at Anatoliy now, though. Maybe it was the result of sitting there for far too long - he hadn't even noticed when it had gotten almost dark outside - or of there being nothing to look at in the room, but it was calming, almost. No echoing halls, no rustling, moving audiences. Just chess. He didn't want to punch him in that weird face of his - he just observed, the same way he observed the situation on the board.

Still - he found it strange. Sergievskiy should be more vigilant, shouldn't he? He was looking back all the time when they walked through the city, despite being lost in the crowd. Peering into cramped little alleyways. He halfway expected him to check the piles of trash just to see if Malakhov or his cronies weren't hiding there. And now? Letting down one's defences was not something one should do - not in a situation like this. Anatoliy was a chess player. A chess player should be always aware of this.

An interesting idea about the Fianchetto variation that unfurled on the board stopped his thoughts.


	12. Chapter 12

 

For every person who was so bright, so precise, so glowing as mother was, there was someone like father - who was a shadow. Moving close to the walls, slithering almost, half-noticed at best. Silent, with eyes that you couldn't really look into. His gaze was always just slightly turned away. Just like shadows of people aren't entirely human, father seemed to miss the part that made a human being entirely alive. Sort of like photographs.

 

He vanished for hours, days, working - always working, and when he did appear in the communal flat they shared, he quietly went to their family's room, sinking into the scratchy orange chair in the corner, either reading, or - most of the time, it seemed like - just sitting there, not doing anything at all, not even being actually present. 

 

Anatoliy didn't try and interact with father. Just like one doesn't really try and interact with the fern in the pot on the windowsill, with the bookshelf, or the wardrobe. Father was a part of the room, one that appeared there sporadically, on certain evenings, only to vanish before Anatoliy was awake.

 

He felt somehow that father's existence did fuel his belief in ghosts. It was a proof of sorts.

 

All the stranger it was when father spoke out one early evening, with a voice that was too deep for someone who consists mostly of smoke and light that he somehow absorbed and never gave back. Then again, he smoked so much, it maybe shouldn't be a wonder.

 

'Your neck, Anatoliy? It doesn't hurt, now, does it?'

 

Anatoliy's fingers touched the scar in the lower half of it, though old, it was still quite visible. Straight, neat, horizontal, quite long, right at the front of his neck. Still purple. Other boys would laugh that he tried to slash his neck for one reason or another, but didn't have the courage to go with it. 

 

Physically, the neck didn't hurt though.

 

'No, father.'

 

'You do know that if something is wrong with it, you have to tell mother.'

 

'Yes, father.'

 

'You do know I am sorry. But you are well now.'

 

'Yes.'

 

Those several times he did speak, he apologised to Tolya. He seemed to expect his son to know what for this apology was for, and even though Anatoliy wasn't exactly sure, he did accept it each time.

 

 Father coughed then, a long, sickly cough. Then he motioned Anatoliy to come closer with a slight nod of his head. The boy left the book he was gripping tightly onto on one of two folding beds crowded in the room, and sat on a thick stack of paper near the orange chair.

 

'How is the school?'

 

'It's good. I - … I met some friends, and the teachers are nice. We should start learning new things soon, I think.'

 

Father almost-smiled at the last sentence.

 

'You need not to be so arrogant, Anatoliy. And it's always good to repeat what you already do know. You are playing chess a lot, aren't you?'

 

Anatoliy felt a light starting to glow inside of himself suddenly.

 

'Yes! And I'm getting good at it, father.' A short pause. 'But I really am!'

 

And he stood up, to fetch the board borrowed from Not-Grandpa. He folded it out on the small table next to the chair and positioned the pieces. It was a well-learned gesture now, the order and the colours all familiar and safe. 

 

'Let's play, can we?'

 

Father sighed and reached out for the white pawn. Silence.

 

'Well, do you know what do you want to be when you grow up? A cosmonaut?'

 

A black pawn wandered two squares away from its current position.

 

'No, not really.'

 

Another white pawn moved to f4.

 

'Do you know what is it called?'

 

Anatoliy smiled, shifting on his stack of papers.

 

'King's Gambit… accepted.'

 

'Getting books from Gennadiy Alexandrevich, are you?'

 

A knight was now facing the black pawn.

 

Anatoliy nodded. He thought as he looked at father — silent people would be good keepers of secrets by default, wouldn't they? Even though he had just been chastised for his arrogance, it still might be not that bad of an idea. And he felt he needed to share it with somebody at this point.

 

Well. Might as well give it a try.

 

'And… I think I want to be a chess player.'

 

Silence again. Anatoliy stared intently at the board, hoping father doesn't hear his heart beating wildly against his ribs. He could hardly hear anything else over the rapid noise and roar of his own blood.

 

'Well, you need to train then. Playing at home or at school won't be enough.'

 

Anatoliy took a deep breath, focusing fully on the game again.

 

He moved his pawn shyly almost, to d6.

 

Father looked at the move with an expression that betrayed sudden interest. Anatoly had never seen it before.

 

'You need to train with other players. Sign up to the chess club at the palace.'

 

He moved another one of his pawns to d4.

 

'And do try and go to Sokolniki.' Pause. 'You are big enough to get there on your own now, aren't you?'

 

'Can I?'

 

Anatoliy scolded himself for this response - too fast, too enthusiastic.

 

Father looked at him. Anatoliy rarely felt those black eyes, so similar to his own, on himself. It was unnerving. He found himself looking back at father though - he didn't really think of it before, but they were similar. Of course they would, as a father and son tend to be, it was quite silly to think they wouldn't, but no one studies the interior of their room either, now do they? The same thick, black hair (though father's was streaked with grey by now) that they combed back - a small similarity in behaviour Anatoliy now noted, perceiving father as just this much more human - the close-set black eyes, dark, thin necks, quick, small hands. Similar. It felt strange to apply this word to the man before him. Does father see these as well?

 

'I suppose so. If you can go to school, you can go there. Ask your mother maybe.'

 

Father's gaze fell back to the board.

 

Only now Anatoliy had registered that in father's right hand, all shining and glowing and red, was his very own _oktyabryonok_ medal. Why would father take it? He didn't really feel sure enough to ask. Deep breath. Back to game. What would make sense now? His gaze slid across his own pawns, pushing a fist against his thick lips. 

 

G5.

 

'So you want to play chess. If you want to do this for a living, you need to do your best, and even then it isn't sure you will actually be a chess player.'

 

Father exhaled, put the tiny red star on the table, took out a cigarette out of a box and lit it.

 

He didn't look at the board anymore, noticed suddenly Anatoliy. Was he looking at the pin?

 

A silence fell in the room, letting noises from the flat fill it out instead - the clutter of dishes being washed, of laundry being scrubbed clean, of other conversations. The little room was a part of a living organism, a quiet cell in surroundings brimming with life.

 

Father fell into his normal, unmoving state. Was the game over? They just started now, didn't they? Anatoliy stared at the board, thinking of a move father should make. A waft of cigarette smoke wrapped around his head, filling out his eyes, making his vision softer somehow.

 

He waited. Patience, Not-Grandpa said, was important in chess. You need not show you are nervous. Sit and wait, even if it takes a long time. This, too, is a part of game - and is a useful skill in life besides chess. Showing that you are stressed lets your opponent win.

 

Sit. Sit still. 

 

Father had drifted away. Was that tiny thread, thinner than one from a spider's web, broken?

 

Still. Sit still. Focus on the game.

 

Don't reach out, don't touch the pieces. Focus.

 

His fingers started to itch as he saw the d4 - play d4, please, play d4! He had been trying to focus and not move the other player's pieces in those past few months though, as Not-Grandpa has been patiently telling him not to.

 

Father was still looking at that glowing red star, right at the edge of the polished table, otherwise covered with books and sheets of paper. A _Pravda_ , with the name of comrade Brezhnev emblazoned on the front page, was at the bottom of the stack. Sort of a makeshift tablecloth. 

 

D4, father, d4!

 

G3. _Oh well_ —

 

'Anatoliy,' father started suddenly, with a strange tone of uncertainty in his voice. He looked at the board, brows furrowed. 'There are children… who live in orphanages after they have lost their families. You've read about them in books probably.

 

After the Great War, there were many children without families, Anatoliy. People who did survive would take them in. As you can imagine, a child would feel grateful for this.'

 

Some ash fell into the tray. In this moment, it sounded inappropriately loud.

 

'And some parents are more strict than others. Many — many would punish a child if it behaves in a way that is out of the line. The punishments might seem cruel even, but they still are a part of upbringing. Even more so if the child is adopted.'

 

For a second, Anatoliy considered mentioning the disciplining that Seryozha's mother had insisted upon, remembering the stinging of his hands and knees and other unpleasant results of her anger, but bursting the bubble of this speech seemed wrong. He just squeezed his palm with the other one instinctively. 

 

'Russia, Anatoliy, is a mother - and she has been so kind as to adopt orphaned children… Even if they were quite mature.'

 

'And… even if a mother does act in a strict manner - even one that's exceedingly so, the child still…'

 

Another plume of smoke spread in the already heavy air that Anatoliy didn't quite dare to breathe in, trying not to spoil the moment.

 

Father looked at the window, trying to find the right word.

 

'…respects her.'

 

Father extinguished the cigarette and continued in a lowered voice.

 

'When she took people like us in, Anatoliy… We should respect her for this.'

 


	13. Chapter 13

Airports and hotels were becoming more and more of a blur with each passing month. Freddie couldn't be happier about that.

"Normal people would miss their home every now and then, wouldn't they?" Florence laughed, looking at him from the corner of her eye. The laugh was slightly strained, but whatever she might have tried to imply, slipped through Freddie's mind faster than the group of tourists running through the airport who passed by them.

He felt electricity racing through his body - so much so, he couldn't help but shake his legs, while somehow still managing to balance the pocket set on his knee. They still had three hours left until the flight to Malta - just enough time to get through some of those notes on Volodin Florence had made back in New York.

"Freddie…" she started again, folding the copy of The Guardian that she was trying to read — the transatlantic red-eye flight didn't exactly help her cognitive skills.

"Yeah?" he responded flatly, not bothering to tear his eyes from the board.  
She opened and closed her lips without saying anything several times. Then, she sighed and folded the newspaper over once more.

"Once we get to Malta, we should finally take care of that book contract… They'll get someone to write the book, you just need to sign the paperwork. It's quick money… Apart from this…" she paused again, looking at the floor. They sat quietly on uncomfortable seats of Gatwick, with crowds passing by them in a blur, the incomprehensible blur of their voices filling Florence's brain like a cloud. Freddie meanwhile seemed to be in his small, self-contained world, the rest of the universe slipping past him.

"I just… We could have flown earlier, Freddie. That letter from Erzsi… I should visit her. It's not looking well. I mean, those interviews, I get it… But I need to go home at some point. I really need to. We are just a few miles away right now and…"

Minutes passed after her voice trailed off. She closed her eyes eventually, trying to rest for at least a few seconds, despite the constant murmur of the airport surrounding her.

Freddie collected the figures into his hand, smiling suddenly.

"Hey, let's rebook those tickets to New York while we're here - it would be pretty cool if we got back from…" he looked at Florence, trying to remember the name of the country. "Malta, right? on July the fourth."

He winked at her.

Florence exhaled loudly and forced herself to smile again. He fumed, sensing what she's about to say, but she started to speak before he managed to open his mouth.

"Freddie, don't. Let's just - stop. And while we are at it, listen to me just this once."

"Shut up, Florence, you —"

"Don't start a scene again, Freddie - and listen. I'm tired, okay?"

Freddie curled his hands into fists and glared at her, but he was silent.

"I'm worried. People are worried about others sometimes."

"She's just your aunt though," Freddie murmured, leaning back in his seat and folding his arms.

"Exactly." Florence hated those moments when Freddie devolved into the half-child, half-wolf that stayed dormant deep inside of him for most of the time more than anything. Each word that she needed to say - and each was necessary in order to bring Freddie to the human realm - could turn him into a snarling creature. He was palpably on the verge of lashing out blindly, and yet needed to have the simplest rules of the reality surrounding him explained to him. She's learned not to ask why. She took a deep breath. There she was, a nursery worker balancing on the doorstep of a zoo cage.

"She's my closest family — she's been worried about me ever since Budapest. You know that she's sick… I want to spend some time with her. We… we could have arrived a day earlier, but you insisted - again - that your TV appearance matters more than —"

She paused, looked at Freddie and started again, in a lower voice. She didn't even need to look at him in order to sense his pulse quickening.

"Freddie, there are more things to life than chess. And not everything can be sorted neatly into those boxes of yours."

She tapped the newspaper and raised her slightly swollen eyes in order to look at him.

"Look, when Fedorov died - remember? - you just said that they have one trainer less and it didn't bother you, but he had a wife, and those grandchildren, I think? Margaryan's wife mentioned something. Anyway, the point is, people have friends and loved ones - they care about them, Freddie… It would help you a lot if you remembered about this - just every once in a while."

Freddie looked at her with a mix of incredulousness and impatience. When he spoke, his voice was oddly quiet.

"You just fucking love acting all high and mighty, don't you? Like I'm retarded, right? And it would help you if I stopped thinking about things that actually matter and not someone's precious feelings. Chess, and all that comes along, all those things, they pay for your time with your auntie. Focus, Florence, for god's sake."

As she was trying to come up with a response, he added, in a softer tone: "Once we get there, we'll talk this through. Now, we've work to do."

He looked at her, and the wildness that she was so accustomed to, while still present, seemed just slightly different - a ray of new light shone upon him for a second in this crowded, buzzing airport. The urge to grab her baggage and walk into the city, to that little flat where Erzsi had lived, strong as it was, had lost with the curiosity caused by this small, strange glint. With each passing day in this job, Florence kept finding new ways to not understand Freddie. As nice as the far-away concept of home seemed on mornings like this, the constant noise of the world they raced through sounded in her veins, she decided. And Freddie, burning madly as he was, made for a good engine. She smiled to herself as she stood up.


	14. Chapter 14

 

"Don't fucking tell me you've actually brought booze with you."

 

This wasn't a question. Freddie looked incredulously at Anatoliy who was pulling out a bottle out of his briefcase. 

 

"How much more stereotypical can you get?"

 

Anatoliy stood up, saying nothing, and went to the small adjacent bathroom, only to return seconds later, carrying a glass, which he wiped with his jacket as he sat down on the floor.

 

"It's quite nice of them, isn't it? The place might be kind of filthy, but they still think you might like to brush your teeth properly after…" Anatoliy paused, looking at Freddie for a second. "…everything is said and done."

 

Freddie frowned, thinking about the proper response for a longer moment.

 

"Better not end up with any evidence stuck in your teeth."

 

"That was terrible. But you're trying, Trumper."

 

Anatoliy poured some vodka into the glass, raised it in a silent toast, and downed the alcohol in a single swift movement. 

 

Freddie just stared with disbelief.

 

"God, this shit stinks… How are you people able to drink this stuff?"

 

"I wish I had some eau de cologne and... lacquer for nails to make a proper drink, but I haven't yet mastered doing my shopping in Thai."

 

A small smile unfurled on Freddie's face, despite him trying to suppress it, as he leaned forward, unbuttoning his cuffs.

 

"Now, here's something I found - you weren't at that tournament three years ago, but it shows what I meant when I said that Vigand can't pull this one off…"


	15. Chapter 15

The time to pack the suitcases hadn't quite arrived yet - it was several weeks away, in fact - but the atmosphere of waiting to leave for Europe was fuelling Freddie's insomnia. New York at this time of year was still wrapped up in winter daze - and at night, the time seemed slowed down even further, stuck to the ground by the dirty sludge that collected on the Brooklyn streets. 

 

In these circumstances, Freddie tried even harder to practice patience of some sort. On that particular night, he kept a stack of fresh magazines to keep him through the night - which was even more of an achievement, considering they would include games from the Moscow championship.

 

It was late enough, he figured. He looked at Florence sleeping silently on the couch, shrugged, grabbed a jacket and the magazines, and wandered out, into the chilly street below.

 

One of good things about living in this area, he thought, were the diners. When he walked into one at four in the morning in order to get his dinner, he felt almost entirely sure no one is going to bother him, and therefore he won't have to waste his time on making sure they won't do this again. 

 

The one he visited the most often was small, not exactly inviting, and even though, in his opinion, they charged way too much, not having to walk very far was a more or less fair trade for having to give them more money. They had food, coffee, chairs and were open at times he considered appropriate for eating — despite Florence's pestering about there being society-approved hours for that as well. 

 

As he entered the diner, it was practically empty. He saw the pretentious-looking waiter (the type who reminded him of a failed Broadway actor) roll his eyes, but Freddie decided to be generous today, and ignore the guy, who was clearly wishing to hear some choice words about customer service. He then sat down on the rickety stool, clearly meant for someone much shorter than him, muttered something about a coffee and fries — since there was no one there, he figured, they'd hear his order — and finally allowed himself to start reading. 

 

His Russian didn't need to include many words to be good enough. Learning more than what was necessary in order to read about chess felt like a waste of time. When the _Shakhmaty_ featured a picture of Fedorov's old, grumpy mug, he was slightly confused - wasn't he too old to play the Moscow championship at this point? His brain was practically gone the last time Freddie saw him. A number was featured close to his name though - was the geezer dead? Freddie fumed. If that was the case, it seemed like a waste of space. Player is a player. It's not like he died in a chess-related accident during the game… the thought made Freddie snicker in turn. Now that would have been something. Maybe it could happen to Vigand. 

 

He flickered through the pages. _Fucking piece of propaganda, published by the Federation,_ he thought as he felt bile rising in his throat _. Moscow, Moscow, Moscow…_ Ah, there it was.

 

Freddie's eyes stopped at the very beginning of the description of the championship. Whoever the winner was, wasn't a grandmaster yet. He quickly looked down at the game published right next to the short, but still overlong, text. The guy who scored the first place played like a madman, attacking in a way that… Freddie hung up his thoughts for a moment, following the lines. That made sense, actually. He wasn't Vigand. And wasn't half bad, for that matter. One more look — definitely wasn't Vigand, neither was he behaving like him. He looked at the name listed above the transcription, slowly sounding out the cyrillic script. _Anatoliy Sergievskiy._ Huh.

 


	16. Chapter 16

 

The streets of Moscow smelled of warm pavements and spring wind, even more so right after one got out of the metro, and the piercing sunlight sparkled in Anatoliy's mind - and so did the simple excitement of going to the Sokolniki park to play chess there for the first time. With his mother going there with him, no less.

 

"We'll see if you're any good, Tolya - if you'll like it, you can consider studying chess after school." she said, exhaling the cigarette smoke. "Don't look at the sun."

 

Since she was a scientist working for the institute, she didn't really have much time for such trivial things as walks, especially ones during daytime, so Anatoliy was trying his best to conceal his joy at having her there, travelling through the city with him. 

 

"When I was talking to father about going to the park…" Anatoliy started, trying to word all the thoughts that were making him feel like he was about to burst apart.

 

Mother looked down at him out of the corner of her eye without actually turning her head. She wasn't very tall compared to other adults, but in order to follow her, Anatoliy still had to almost jog.

 

"When we were talking… He was apologising to me. You know. Like that one time before." 

 

He kicked a piece of gravel. After spitting out these words, the tremor inside him felt different, as if the sun had been partially covered by a cloud. He lifted his gaze. It wasn't.

 

"Don't look at the sun," she repeated in the same dry tone. 

 

A pause.

 

Another look.

 

"Because he's weak, Anatoliy."

 

Her voice sounded the same as when she spoke about the sun, and when she asked him to return the change from the money she gave him to buy the metro tickets before. There was something about her manner of speech that reminded Anatoliy of a military orchestra drum, precise and sharp, while staying incredibly monotone at the same time.

 

He didn't quite understand, nor did he dare to say he didn't, so he just walked faster, trying to keep up with her.

 

Well, father wasn't exactly a big person either, yes, but Anatoliy never really thought of him as neither strong nor weak — just smart, as any scientist working with those magnets at the institute would be. Smart, quiet and not entirely existant. 

 

But… well, mother might have been right. Just as she was always sharp, always present, ready to strike back would anything happen, father was partially in his realm of ghosts. That kind of difference might be a kind of strength, or lack thereof, could it?

 

"He is a coward, Anatoliy. A man with more than a handful of courage wouldn't be so afraid of his own mind. Someone who is strong doesn't obsess over their own actions so much. Once something happens, as I've told you, you either fix it or let it go. Apologies aren't worth a thing. Your father? As you can see, he wallows in events from years ago," mother said, calm still, lighting another cigarette. Not once did she raise her voice.

 

She stopped then, and leaned lightly against a tree that grew at the edge of the sidewalk. Anatoliy stopped next to her, in the pleasant shadow. The rustle of the trees filled the pause - he felt that mother wasn't quite done with what she had wanted to say.

 

"With your chess, I hope you will understand this soon enough. This is one of those few things you might learn from it. Make choices that are there to be made, let everything else go."

 

She gave him a careful once-over. Anatoliy shuddered then — he felt like a laboratory test object. Yes, mother would often jokingly call him a laboratory mouse, but rarely he felt like one quite this much. He had started to fiddle with the first button of his shirt.

 

"Don't tear it off. You'll be sewing it back on if you do."

 

Mother looked ahead of her, at nothing in particular. 

 

"You are starting to understand this — whatever your classmates are doing, you aren't whining about it too much. No reason to speak about it, unless you make a choice to fight back."

 

It sounded almost like praise. Anatoliy chose to smile, and mother smiled back, her big, dark eyes gently half-closed.

 

The sun shone through the branches, throwing complicated patterns onto the sidewalk.

 

She started to speak then, again, but somehow in a much lower voice, just above a whisper, like one would when speaking of a secret that wasn't quite their own.

 

"Your father had made a decision - dragging us through the country - you could have gotten treatment in the East. He is weak, Anatoliy. He never quite owned up to the decisions he made. Working there and returning... Moreover, he thought only of his sense of guilt then." She said, slowly and calmly. Then she took another drag on the cigarette. "As he does now," she added.

 

She threw the butt of the cigarette under the tree.

 

"I don't want you to waste time on studying chess if you aren't chess player material. There's only so much time you have - and you can play games anyway, if you really wish. So, let's see how you will do."

 

She then almost-smiled at him once more, and marched down the street, with Anatoliy following her as well as he could.


End file.
